Bruised
by She Who Shines
Summary: "John Doe"  aka Jackson Rippner  agrees to aid in Charles Keefe's rescue for his freedom. Confident in his abilities, Jack can taste his liberty-until the woman he spent his jail time trying to forget reenters his life and drives him mad all over again.
1. Prologue: Glass Eye

_Lily._

He traced the name over the cheap orange sheets.

_Lila._

Violent blue eyes bored into fabric. They outlined two syllables, four letters.

_Leia._

His index finger slipped over the knitting. It slid slowly, forming a straight line. His lips curled down in a frown. His eyes flashed. His hand lurched to the side, drawing the base of his imaginary L.

_Lori._

He wouldn't think it.

_Lola._

He wouldn't write it.

_Liza._

He wouldn't say it. Not the name that really mattered. He wouldn't trace each letter with a gentle caress. L…I…S…A.

_LISA _exploded in his mind before he could shut it out. He lurched over, rolling off his side to his back and slamming his head hard enough to shake the bunk. His jaw slipped up. Echoes of the sound bounced in his skull. He took a breath, a long one, letting the oxygen seep into him.

That name, the one that wouldn't leave him, the one that followed him here. He wouldn't let it bother him anymore, not another moment. It _didn't _bother him anymore, he insisted.

First there was rage. Unadulterated rage powered him through the first weeks in prison, steaming, stewing. Then the melancholy consumed him, memories, moments he had never shared with her but _watched, _the hour he spent "sweeping her off her feet," or trying, and the following night and morning that had simultaneously destroyed his career, reputation, and chance at escaping it all. Now not only was he a _failed _"manager," but she had foiled his plans of escaping his occupation, of that mission as his final endeavor, of _freedom _at all in the future_. _But he _missed _her.

Then calm. Last of all came calm. This realization, this moment, when he knew his life was his own, and he would do with it as he pleased, whatever felt necessary, whatever felt good. He was trapped for now, yes, but it wouldn't be for _long. _There was one thing he knew: he was getting out and rebuilding his skill, stronger than ever. And more importantly, he would forget everything about the woman who threw him off kilter in the first place.

The passion drained away. Stoic certainty took him over. Simple male-driven factual logic. Sly as usual, he continued, here, in the prison, entirely ready.

The bright light blared into his face. Palms folded neatly on the smooth wood, his eyes glanced up at the beam and back forwards to the shadowed silhouette. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't uncomfortable. He had faced his fair share of this before.

"Mr.…" the woman's voice trailed off. "Jackson Rippner, was it?" He could hear the smile dripping off every word. "You certainly baffled us, Mr. _John_ _Doe, _once we discovered Jackson Rippner died quite a while ago." She paused, leaning over. "By stabbing, I hear. Perfectly ironic, isn't it?" A single hand flicked up and to the side. "But it begs the question. What shall we call you, seeing as our best have yet to identify any solid fact pertaining to our own Mr. Mysterious?"

"Whatever you like, I'd suppose." His words came low, spoken in the back of his throat with minimal effort and maximum chill. His eyes, luminescent blue, seemed to glow in the light, pupils shrinking and shrinking as that deathly blue overwhelmed them.

The voice halted. She raised a finger. "Very well, Mr. Doe. For simplicity's sake." Her head tilted. "I assume you know to whom you are speaking?"

"Lyla Alden, expert in behavioral psychology and psychoanalysis," his eyes flicked up and down blandly, "government operative and advisor."

A grin stretched across her face. She seemed pleased. "You do your research, don't you? Fabulous. Now. This government I advise has a _proposition _for you."

"I'm listening."

"You see, Mr. Doe, there's been a… ah, _development, _wherein your particular expertise could be appreciated."

His brows went up, urging her on.

"Doubtless you remember your former target, Mr. Keefe," she continued smoothly. "A newly formed band of terrorists have taken him into custody. It is their intent to ransom him off to your former employers, where the K. Family assassination is concerned." Her bony hands hit the table, firmly, and Miss Alden leant forwards, dipping out of the light. Her fire-engine red glasses sparkled as she passed the lamp's glow. "We want you to extract him."

Keefe. He felt a pang of dark emotions welling in his gut. The first case he had failed in a long, long while.

"Why should I?" he asked, voice sharp.

"For a substantial fiscal reward, of course." The woman settled back. "And, the more obvious _freedom_."

"What's the catch?" his chin darted up a moment, sliding down slowly.

"There is none!" Miss Alden assured, and he didn't believe a word. "You rescue and return him, unharmed, intact, before he might have chance to divulge any _unsettling _information any way you please. Of course, we will track your movements and activity at all times during and before the operation. But if this mission is successful, you are free to go."

He spread out his fingers, tapping the desk to a gentle beat. His eyes narrowed. "How long would I have?"

"Two weeks."

"Impossible," he snorted, falling back in his seat. His arms folded. "My plans hinge on the details, on elements of certainty. I need to know every variable" his voice fell in pitch with each syllable, "in—side—and—_out_."

"You have two weeks. Mr. Doe." That unwavering, steady smile remained over her face. She raised her chin. "…That is, if _we _have a deal. What do you say?"

He watched her shrewdly. "I assume you'll supply the materials and information I may need."

"Within reason."

"And where will I work from?"

"An office location has been set aside for you. You have three stories at your disposal."

He nodded. Thoughts swirled in his mind. A new case. A time to exercise his talents, what he was _good _at, what he _knew. _The thought sent a thrill up his spine. "Very well." A smirk livened up as his blue eyes flashed: "Count me in."

The woman rose to her feet with a clack of her heels. He remained seated. "I'll need further details."

"All set aside for you, of course." She paused, a moment, and stated: "You get one shot, Mr. Doe. One stumble, one slip, and you're back in here." Her lips formed the words with exaggerated motion: "For life."

_I'm so scared. _The smirk grew, half a grin sliding up his face. The sneer hung around. "I won't…_slip._" He had spent years, so many years of his life doing this. Now it all hinged on this one mission, and now there was no way it could fail.

"We are asking you this because, in all our records, you have only failed _once_." Miss Alden's stretched smiled widened. "Make sure it doesn't happen again. I hope you have isolated your mistakes."

He watched her, silently. _Lisa, _his mind whispered, somewhere deep, down below. He kept it locked away. _It won't be a problem, _he told himself. _Not this time._


	2. Black Eye

_**Author's Notes: **This is by far the hardest story I've ever attempted to write, partially because it's moving a thousand times slower than I wanted it to, partly because these characters are HARD, and partly because Lisa and Jack refuse to do anything interesting to each other whatsoever. Any feedback, requests, or suggestions from _you _(yes, you_) _would be a delight to have, seeing as I feel like I'm treading water when I write this and helpful advice would make me shed tears of joy. Haha. Anyhow, enjoy! Thank you, so very much, for taking the time to read my words._

Those violent blue eyes peered into the next room, at the top of the stairs. The manager and the psychologist stood in the doorframe. She spoke softly, something about names and purposes and locations and his room apparently upstairs, but he wasn't listening.

Here, there were tables. The professional desk-like tables. Several computers, several chairs, several phones, and several maps. Across the room the walls were lined with windows, one-way-mirrors to the outer world, but he wasn't looking.

A dozen people wandered the carpeted floor. Most wore suits. Two sported red hair. Miss Alden was the only blond, but three had dark hair, almost black. The brunettes dominated this space, but he wasn't noticing.

One of them had green eyes. She wore a floral skirt and her thick hair caught his attention. She bent over the table, speaking intently, fingers pressed to the cool surface. She dropped her chin and raised her eyes, gaze emblazed with a fire. A fist clenched and slammed down with an audible _clang. _ She leaned in closer, and her eyes flashed, when another figure tripped in a flurry of papers. She snapped upright, back and looked, and her flower patterned skirt swiveled around her legs.

Of course she had to squat down and gather the papers. Of course she smiled, brightly, with those pretty green eyes. Of _course_ she whispered a word of encouragement—_don't worry about it, here, _she would say, she would mention something her father said, something about how everyone trips but it takes someone special to get back up, and then tilt her head assuredly and gather up to her feet—and she tilted her head with an assuring smile as she rose up to her feet.

This he watched, because he couldn't tear his eyes away. He couldn't look away, but he wouldn't think her name. He wouldn't. He wouldn't.

Miss Alden talked. She talked about elephants and jet packs and _Can you _hear _me, Mr. Doe?, _but he wasn't listening. His eyelids drooped. His fingers balled up into fists. His chest burned, a fire zipping down his stomach and through his legs.

The heat fell over him like a fog. He licked his lips. Slowly:

"Get her out of here," he said. His voice carried so softly the woman could barely hear.

Gripping her glasses at the side, she adjusted the red frames up her nose. "Excuse me?" Miss Alden grinned, brows furrowing.

One hand slipped up the doorframe. His fingers caught tight around it, gripping harder and harder until his knuckles turned white. His tongue dabbed at the corner of his mouth and hid away. He turned his cold blue eyes to the woman and drew his head forwards.

"Get rid of her."

"Mr. Doe, I fail to see the problem. Are you so prone to snap judgments?"

"If you want this go through," he elaborated, face growing cold, "get rid of her."

"Miss Li—"

"I _know_" his eyes widened for emphasis "who she is. I've _worked—_"

Miss Alden's eyes flicked to the side, the left corner of her mouth slipping downward. He cut himself off. "What?" he wondered aloud.

A heavy weight crashed into his head, accompanied by two desperate words "_Never again!_" His knees buckled, he fell to the floor, palms hitting the carpet.

"Lyla run!" a voice shrieked.

No. Not _a_ voice. _Her _voice.

His feet latched around an ankle and yanked before he had a moment to think. His head rang, aloud, he whipped around, right into Lisa's heavy right hook. His face smashed to the side, but he caught her wrist and scrambled back, dragging her screeching.

"CALL THE COPS!"

"Miss Reisert," the psychologist's caramel tones were uncharacteristically level.

Lisa lunged at him with her free hand. Feet stamped down the hall, echoing from the other room as her companions rushed to the lady's aid. "GET HELP!" she shrieked. He caught her other wrist, slammed their heads together.

"Miss Reisert?"

Guns cocked all around. Someone dragged Lisa up. He sat there, watching her with blazing blue eyes. He watched, and watched, and his nostrils flared as he lifted himself to his knees.

"Don't move!" one of the operatives cried. "Lisa, what's this about? Miss Alden?"

The psychologist let out a weary sigh. "Ladies, gentlemen, meet Mr. Doe. Our mission coordinator."

'John Doe' pulled himself to his feet and, swiping his hands up his features, gathered himself. He had to find the calm again. The calm. Male-driven fact based logic.

His fingers dropped and he took in the hallway of shocked agents, many poising cocked pistols, others merely gaping. A huge book spread across the thin blue carpet. Must be what Lisa smashed him over the head with.

Lisa. He could see her. She lingered in the corner of his eyes, hands clenched, panting, confusion plastered over her pretty face. He clamped a hand over his fist.

"It's a pleasure to… meet you," he offered, raising a brow. He brought a hand to the blackening bruise across his face.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" Lisa demanded. "Lyla, he tried to assassinate Keefe!"

"No," he corrected acidly. "That was a boat full of Russians."

"And that is exactly why he is involved in this project," Miss Alden explained. "Point of view is so _very _important. We can only look from the outside in, you and I. Mr. Doe has seen from a different angle entirely."

"Doe?" Lisa hissed. "What happened to _Jack Rippner?_"

"He died, several years before the Miami flight," Lyla supplied.

The young woman jabbed a thumb at her chest. "He tried to kill me. He invaded my house and assaulted my father. I would be _dead _now if he had his way. Get rid of him. Now."

'John' turned, and whispered quietly to the psychologist. "Get her out or I won't play."

"Get rid of him, _right now!_" she shrieked.

The woman glanced between them. She adjusted her glasses, gaze downwards, and when her face rose, that stretched smile lay smeared over it. She took a pace over to Lisa, taking her shoulders in her hands. "Miss Reisert."

Miss. _Still alone are we?_

"_Lisa,_" the psychologist continued. "I will never force you into anything." Her smile widened. "We can speak further," her eyes glanced about, "…_in private. _For now, suffice to say, Mr. Doe is imperative to our operation."

"If he's in I'm out."

"I would not hold it against you if you walked out that door," she pointed towards the stairs. "Go. Go home. Take a day off. You'll be out of work until Keefe returns to his family. It could be a vacation."

A strange look passed over Lisa's features. He read it immediately—duty, guilt. She straightened and her fingers flexed. She whispered something, emblazoned.

He strode across the floor, each step taking him closer. "Shame. It's all _such_ a shame. Goodbye."

He ripped through the door and into the office and took to pacing in the back, hissing, stomping, whilst some conversation unknown took place out of doors. One by one, the agents filed within once more. Lisa was among them, of course. He sat as far from her as he could.

Spoilt. Everything. His shot at freedom, it would all work so smoothly, it _would _have. But now, every moment, he had to watch her, see her, know her. She was always hiding in his world somewhere. How could plan a rescue mission like this?


	3. Steel Eye

_**A/N:** I want to thank Gabreya and Trudes193 for making me feel good about this story. It means the world to me that you reviewed, and it's also reminded me to post this next chapter up today :D So thank you._

_I hope you all can forgive the lack of Lisa- I really wanted to write from the guy's perspective, as most ficlets I've perused show the story from the girl's eyes, and that's pretty much all I've written before. I find myself so infused in his mind and his thoughts that Awesome Lisa gets neglected. As Jackson re-warms up to her, she'll take a greater presence in the story and we'll finally get to the GOOD PART I started writing this ding dang story for XD_

Throughout the orientation, discussions of Keefe's holding cell, she sat amongst the crowd with her legs crossed. Her hand lingered over her breast, where the scar was. He remembered that mark, the etching into her skin. He remembered the story that came with it, not surprising by the end of their flight, but also the one thing about her he hadn't taken into account. A tremor slipped through him, up his spine. His fingers folded together.

Lisa gave a short presentation, amongst the other. She was discombobulated, heavy spoken, each word. She never met his eyes. He gazed past her, just to the side.

Miss Alden introduced her as "Deputy Secretary Keefe's travel agent, amongst us as a character witness and well-rounded operative." Keefe's travel agent? Apparently working in a hotel had lost its charm.

"Keefe won't escape on his own," Lisa had said. She wasn't the last to speak, and she wasn't the first. "He's given us a clue to his location that's pinned him in Asia, and from there he's going to wait for us to give him a sign. Once he sees that he won't hesitate. We can count on Charles to help us get him out."

Miss Alden spoke softly as the younger woman left for the day. She said, "Ms. Reisert isn't going anywhere, Mr. Doe, I can promise you that. If you cannot handle this mission I'll find someone who can."

His room was upstairs. But after they left he spent the night pacing every inch of the workspace, his own "office," the first room with tables, computers, and reading files. He wanted to know each nook and each corner, every rumple in the carpet, every crack in the walls. He had to be prepared.

Two weeks. There were only two weeks to get into a stronghold holding a government official with a hidden homing device. They had aerial shots and bios on at least two of the individuals involved. He wouldn't normally work off such little data, but this case was different.

He had a list. It lay across the desk of his office (segmented off the main room), neatly naming the operatives at his disposal. He organized it carefully, gathering groups.

All operations had to move smoothly, elegantly—but this one had to be slow as well. Everything that led Keefe's rescue had to appear innocent to his captors, entirely incidental. To accomplish this, he needed a man in the middle of it and a team on the outside.

If he had more time, he would get a new member into the terrorist cell. Given the limitations, he would have to attempt the next best thing. They needed to give the captors one more prisoner.

He poured over the maps, scribbling on the paper. His fingers clutched the pencil like a claw. The lead scratched against the paper no more delicately as he jotted down his forming plan.

"Jack."

The lead froze mid motion. His eyes fluttered shut. He took a deep breath, sucking in the air. Slowly, his eyes fell open, and the pencil began to blacken the white surface once more.

She wasn't there, he told himself. If she were it wouldn't matter. She wasn't, wasn't.

"I don't know what your game is." Her voice dropped, he could hear her breathing, the determination. She stood in the doorframe behind him. It led out to the tables and computers and from there the hallway. But she blocked the exit, standing there.

"I don't know how you got out of prison."

He ignored her. Every word, he shoved it out. He barely noticed her, he assured himself. _Keep writing. Keep writing._

"But if you get near me again."

His left fist clenched. The pencil ripped through the paper. He grit his teeth and started again, eyes darting up the wall.

"If you _hurt _anyone at all."

_Go away. Go away._ This mission was everything.

"I don't know how you survived a pen in the neck, stilettos, two bullets and a hockey stick. But I _promise _you, what I'll do to you, you'll never wake up from."

To his relief, he didn't hear another word from her all day. But, after her muffled footsteps faded out, and he glanced down at his notes, he crumpled the paper into a ball and flung it across the room. _Lisa, _it read. _Lisa—Lisa—Lisa._

The next morning he felt safer, surer. He had it together, closer. A little longer and it'd be ready.

There was a camera up above, gazing down at him with a single black eye. He had spotted it and several others the first day here, but it hadn't moved until today. He caught it pivoting at least three times, just to follow him, out the corner of his eye.

There was a security office somewhere in the building, up higher than he was 'allowed' to go. Why would someone take attention to him so suddenly? He bent over his desk and flipped out a phone the psychologist provided a while earlier.

"Ms. Alden," he stated simply when the ringing halted. He pressed his shoulder into the phone and flipped through papers over the desk with his hands, attempting to appear nonchalant.

"Who is this?"

"Doe."

"Yes?"

"Send them in tomorrow. I'll have a plan by then."

"I assume you'll prefer to remain undisturbed until, Mr. Doe?" she queried.

"Yes." He paused a moment. "Someone's watching me, Miss Alden."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," the word came sharper than he'd intended. Somehow the exchange reminded him of a different one, one that wasn't his. "Yes, I'm sure. Who's up there now?"

"No one new. See for yourself, if you like."

"I think I will." He hung up, closed the phone. He would.

He marched out of the room, feeling the camera's gaze following him. It tickled the base of his neck. Taking Alden's words as permission, he darted up the stairs, feet rapidly whizzing onward. The security office was lower than he would of suspected, and labeled clearly. He didn't bother to knock, but ripped open the door without pause. His cold blue eyes swept across the room.

Monitors, everywhere, lit up with offices and colors and peoples. Controls spread out below it, one pivoting chair, and a desk-like shelf extending from the wall all around the room. It was impossibly quiet, no sound came with the images.

Two people were there. One, a man, asleep. The other, a woman, whipped around. Her thick hair settled around her face, she had a gun out, and this time, she looked like she knew how to use it, had used it before, and wasn't afraid to.

"You're not allowed up here, Rippner!" she steamed.

Slowly, he raised up his hands, more mock than serious, they never came higher than his shoulders. "I can't say I'm not _flattered _by your attention, Miss Reisert," he ground out. "But I've work to do, and with your cameras following me around, Miss Reisert, it's difficult to _focus._" His eyes widened to emphasize the last word, head cocking. He started a step back. She tightened her grip on the weapon, as if to say _don't move._ "Don't worry, I'm not overstepping my bounds. I've agreed to these terms. And you know I don't lie, Leese."

He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't at all. _Leese _was even worse than Lisa. Lisa was _her, _the thought he had tried to banish all this time_. _Leese was _them, _the night and day they spent trying to kill each other_. _Leese was when he spoke to her. Leese was when he wanted to _impress _her, to control her, to earn her respect.

"Get out."

"Same to you," he hissed, and turned away.

_Get out of my head, Lisa. Get out._


	4. Sky Eye

**_A/N_:** _We're finally getting closer to the action! (and you may interpret that last word multiple ways ;D) This story is plodding along just fine and inspiration has me pretty good, so long as I keep up on my crazy college homework, expect regular updates! And please review. Because if you do, then I'll know there are people reading and my muse will come down and give me a big fat inspiration kiss and there will be lots of chapters. And if you have any requests just say because chances are I'll jump up and down in glee and do it. Really really :3 Thank you so much for stopping by, I hope you enjoy my work._

Downstairs, he ripped through his files, maps, and photos in a rage. Maps of the city. Pictures of the kidnappers (the only clear shot was of a man named Sakim, apparently some sort of "lieutenant" in the terrorist cell) and files, files, so many files. In a matter of hours he had it. It all came together that final day, and at last, he had a plan to drive this mission onward.

At the table in the center of the room, the largest, the members gathered together. He watched Lisa edge away, purposely sitting as far from him as she could. Sadly, she ended up directly _across _from him, and the mistake made her face flush with fury. He averted his gaze, taking in the others in the room, and remained standing. He leant over the surface and pressed his fingers down.

"These men won't ransom us Keefe," he stated simply, "even if it were an option. They won't acknowledge us, either, my 'old friends' will make sure of that." With these next words, his head tilted the slightest, "They'll haggle. The deal will be sealed in a couple weeks and that'll be the end of our politician." The last word was enunciated so well each consonant clicked across the room.

"What's they're problem with Charles Keefe?" someone queried across the table.

He frowned, casting luminescent blue eyes that way. The wrenching glare clearly said so much more than the "I assume they disagree with his methods" he actually spoke. It said the question was irrelevant and at the same time spoke so much deeper, down, stopping hearts in the terror of those blue eyes.

Lisa's face twisted up incredulously, but she remained silent. He could practically hear her thoughts, spotting her in the corner of his gaze. She was comparing Keefe's methods to his, he had no doubt in his mind.

"We're dealing with foreign extremists. Better yet, _desperate _foreign extremists," he continued. "They'll latch onto anything they can get their hands on. We'll lay a prize in their laps."

"A Trojan horse?"

"More or less. One of us plays the part of an American heir, gets in there, and takes in everything needed to get out. First the place must be scouted and the guarding system better understood, but that cannot come until we make the journey over the Atlantic."

"Mr. Doe, you promised me a complete plan," Miss Alden smiled. "_Today._"

"And I've kept that promise," he countered. "Expect more when I see this place for myself." His eyes flashed. "I've written out other details, but nothing can be sealed until I am there."

Miss Alden reluctantly agreed. She secured a unique flight for the key members amongst them in accordance with his formulating plan of action. None were set to travel in the same plane same class, to keep as covert as possible, and before long he sat in an airport, by a familiar restaurant, staring at a simple drink between his fingers.

Tex Mex. He really did like the place. That's why he brought her here, those years ago.

He stirred the ice around, smirking at himself. He could run now, take a different flight, if he had any money in his pocket or if it weren't for the device at his ankle, constantly watching.

Besides, he could do this. He could do it well. He could win his freedom. There was no doubt in his mind.

Almost none.

He sipped the drink and swallowed slowly. Peering over the rim, there stood that one sliver of doubt. Lisa waited in the line, patiently, rocking back and forth over her pretty heeled shoes, biting her lip, folding her hands between her knees, her fingers rumpled the skirt. He smirked, feeling she must be unsettled at the idea of being here again with him, even if they both kept careful distances. Maybe even as unsettled as he was when he saw her at the beginning of this mission.

He peered back at his drink. He downed it in another moment, ordered another. He passed the time slowly, enjoying this moment to relax his mind.

At first it felt nice. Then he noticed her, waiting patiently in line, but gaze drifting. She was watching him, still. Only fair, he supposed, he couldn't keep his eyes off her. Thank god they were on different flights.

Planes canceled. Flights delayed. In the end he found himself walking down the aisle in coach searching for his seat.

He found it.

Both their eyes bugged out and she scrambled back as far as the chair would allow it. They gaped at one another. The papers between his fingers crumpled. "That's my seat."

"You're kidding."

Solemnly, he offered his slip. Her head shook. Desperately.

"What are you _doing _here?" he demanded. Despite how quietly he spoke, his voice carried and commanded, edged with a dangerous bite. "We weren't supposed—"

Lisa looked sick. She leapt to her feet and scrambled around him. "Who wants to trade seats? Hello? Anyone?"

In typical fashion, no one paid her mind. She marched towards a flight attendant. He caught her arm, frowning. "Don't draw attention to us," he ordered.

Lisa whirled. Her hand crashed down. She slapped him, hard, face twisted in a snarl.

That was the second time she'd hit him since he'd seen her again, the only greeting she had for him. His fingers slid across his tingling cheek. His eyes lifted up to hers.

That firm green gaze blazed back, like an emerald fire. He felt where the prints of her hand had pressed across him, and it was so sick that these were the only times she had ever touched him, when she struck him, and the only memory he ever had of touching her was wrenching her aside and whispering orders under threat of duress.

He wanted it to be different. Being reminded that it wasn't sent a fury up his spine. And those emerald eyes still bore back into him, the anger, the loathing welled up inside them both, and each breath they heaved within was audible to the people sitting around them. They panted in fury, in unison.

"Don't touch me," they said as one.

"What's going on here?" asked a flight attendant, a man, stepping between them.

"I need to get off this plane," Lisa declared. She gripped his arm, the newcomer, and John Doe's eyes fell to her fingers tightening, boring into the contact. He felt a nausea of anger welling within him. "I need to get off this plane. Now."

"I'm sorry Miss, it's too late for that now, we've already closed the doors—"

"I need to get off this plane."

"She needs to get off this plane," he said, eyes never rising from that firm grip. "She can't stay here."

It was hard enough sitting across a table from her, spotting her swimming in and out of his world. Next to him? For a whole flight? _Again?_

No, never again. He'd made that mistake once.

"Get her off this plane."

"Get me off this plane!"

"I'm going to have to ask you both to sit down and buckle up, now," the man ordered firmly. "The pilot's taking off any minute."

His luminescent blue eyes snapped to hers desperately. She glanced from him to the other. Her lips mouthed one word, barely the breath of it escaping her, _please, _she begged, _please. _

"Sit," the man said.

"Or what?" John demanded, the full force his clear blue eyes zapping up to _glare._

"We've got cuffs here," the attendant croaked.

"I won't do this!" Lisa cried. _"Never again,_" she whispered.

"_The pilot will be taking off in two minutes. Please buckle up and remain seated," _the intercom interjected with strangely familiar voice.

The flight attendant panicked. "Sit—just sit—all right? I'll get you extra peanuts and a drink or something—" The man backed up down the halls.

Jack and Lisa stood there a moment. The other people in the cabin cast them strange looks.

"_Please take your seats."_

Lisa stomped and slipped down by the window, buckling up. Her face turned to the glass. She took a sharp breath in, clutching the armrest. He adjusted his collar, closed his eyes a brief moment. Carefully, he sat beside her. He tightened his straps until it almost hurt. He let his head swing back as the plane took off.

Six hours. Just six hours. He could handle six hours.

"Mmmm," she muttered.

Six hours beside Lisa Reisert. He could handle it. He didn't have to look at her, to smell her, to—

"Mmmmm," she cringed.

"Shut up," he whispered, peeking at her with a side glance. She was pale, clutching the seat, gazing out the window.

What? After all this she still hadn't gotten over flying?

"We're not going to crash, Leese, more people die in cars than planes now be a good girl and _shut up._"

She dropped her chin, eyes clenched shut. A hand fished into her pocket. A pen slipped between her fingers, and she gripped it, hard. Her eyes made their way up and _glared._

His darted from pen to her.

"You found my scar last time, Jack," she said, one hand pressed to her breast. "But I _gave_ you one." Her other fingers nestled on her lap. The pen shook between her knees. "Leave me alone."

His neck, at the base, where the last pen he had seen Lisa hold lodged itself that long time ago, throbbed quietly. There _was_ a scar, sparking at his gullet with a red starburst circle. The collar covered it up.

"James," he corrected, turning away from her, keeping his eyes straight ahead. They betrayed him once and peeked nervously at the pen, stealing a glimpse from the corner of his eye. "I'm James Dorian this time."

Lisa scoffed, jerking her head aside. The pen snapped in and out as she pressed the end, again, again, clicking.

He didn't like this. She was exerting control, establishing power. She came out on top last time, that's what she was showing him, telling him. He tossed her another glance. Her eyes were out the window again. His lips stretched out, he spoke.

"How's your father?" he asked, and his words had the desired effect. She sat up straight like a whip cracking. "What'd he say last time you spoke with him? You think he's fine, don't you, safe at home? Are you sure? It's funny. How everything can seem right, juuuust grand, and then it goes to shit before you have a moment to gather yourself together." He laughed. "It's funny, how you can plan and hope and _wish _and then there's one tiny, minuscule detail you never noticed before that changes the entire game. One mistake. One—little—slip." He shook his head.

One little scar, that gave Lisa the guts to fight back, one little knick that made her turn down that sea breeze—it all would have been easier if she'd let him buy the damn drink, he'd earned the right, he'd guessed it—"And sometimes, sometimes it's even worse. Sometimes you can do it all right—Leese, you did it all right, you know that? You were spectacular, never strayed from that so far as I can see." His eyes flicked her up and down. "But even so, the world decided to beat you up for it anyhow."

The plane trembled again, jostling the passengers and shaking their seats. He frowned. Flights never ran smoothly for him. He'd been on a number.

"And you still bother," he muttered. She still kept going, on with her kindness, on with her bold devotion, on with her loyalty and determination _damn her. _She wouldn't stop, not with those beautiful smiles and that thick hair. "It's pathetic."

Lisa needed to get with the system.

Maybe then she would stop being extraordinary. Maybe then could finally forget about her.


End file.
